


The Dragon and the Maiden Fair

by starbursts_and_kisses



Series: Fly Me to the Moon [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Innocence, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbursts_and_kisses/pseuds/starbursts_and_kisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Would you like to be my Visenya, little Arya Stark?"</p><p>Ned Stark's little girl finds herself lost in the dungeons of King's Landing and ends up making a promise to a strange boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dragon and the Maiden Fair

The first time her father takes her to King’s Landing, she is six, a thin waif of a girl with dirt-smudged cheeks and tangles in her hair, her head filled with thoughts of swordfights and dragon riders. 

But the capital of Westeros is nothing like what she had expected. It is hot and filthy and smells of horse manure, populated by street urchins and gossiping nobles – with men who laugh too easily and women with strange hairstyles and heavy jewelry that glitter like distant stars – and all too soon she finds herself wishing she could go home. 

She hates it here. She is forced to wear a gown – an ill-fitting grey thing that itches whenever she moves – and is given clear instructions to curtsey and smile at strangers. Her mother tells her they’ll only be staying for a short while, but all the same she fusses over her and tells her to conduct herself like the proper lady that she is. Stay still. Behave. Speak only when spoken to. Do not run along the hallways. Do not throw peaches at your sister in public. There are so many rules it makes her head hurt. 

But Arya Stark has never been the type of child who bothers with rules, so it isn’t long before she finds herself escaping the clutches of her septa and wandering the twisted passageways and secret labyrinths of the Red Keep. Her Braavosi fencing instructor – the one her father secretly hired several days after he saw her lying asleep in the godswood with multiple bruises and a tourney sword clutched lovingly in her tiny arms– tells her that she must continue her water dancing training even though she is away from Winterfell, so with an eager and dutiful heart, she obeys. Instead of joining her sister in her needlework and playing with the other noble children in the castle, she spends the rest of her days chasing after cats, balancing on stairwells, and hiding from her mother. 

One afternoon, during a particularly difficult part of her training, she finds herself lost in the dungeons. She doesn’t know how she got there; all she remembers is chasing after the vicious, one-eyed cat that has successfully managed to elude her for days and jumping up and pulling herself through a window as wide as an arrow slit to avoid detection by the palace guards. 

And now she is trapped in an unfamiliar place with no way out and no one left to guide her. Arya blinks hard against the darkness, her heart pounding in her chest like hoof beats on the sand, her pupils dilated with fear. She stretches out her arms until her palms strike something hard, and using the rough stone wall as her guide, she puts one foot in front of the other, walking slowly but surely and telling herself that against all odds she must be brave. 

Eventually, she perceives the faint outline of a light, and when her eyes are able to adjust again, what she sees makes her gasp. There are monsters all around her, with huge socketless eyes and sharp, gleaming fangs the color of ivory. They remind her of the nightmares she used to have when she first arrived at King’s Landing, and for a moment, she is paralyzed by a terror so sudden it makes her chest constrict. But then she hears Syrio’s voice in her head, chiding her to be as swift and fierce as a wolverine, so she forces herself to come closer and touch the lifeless sentinels in the darkness. 

“Dragons,” she breathes as her fingertips skim over the smooth bones. She lets out a small laugh, suddenly feeling silly for cowering in the dark like a scared little child. They are not monsters like the ones in Old Nan’s stories. They are merely bones, ancient relics from a time long past, when magic still roamed the earth and winged creatures breathed fire and terror into the hearts of men. She has never seen a dragon up close before, and now that she has, she no longer feels afraid, only curious. 

“Hey! You aren’t supposed to be here.” 

She jumps up at the unexpected sound, snatching her hands away from the skulls, and turns around. At first she sees no one, but then she gradually begins to make out the shape of a young boy sitting right between the jaws of a huge dragon skull, his face half-hidden in shadows. He looks to be around Jon’s age, perhaps older, with shoulder length silver hair and the most peculiar pair of violet eyes she has ever seen. 

Arya warily approaches him. “Who are you?”

The boy fixes her with a haughty stare. “Do you not recognize your prince when you see him? I am Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of my Name, Prince of Dragonstone, and soon to be King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms,” he proclaims. “And who are you supposed to be, little girl?” 

“I’m Arya,” she says boldly, then with the natural curiosity of a six-year-old, asks him, “Why are you hiding down here?” 

“This is my sanctuary. I like to come here when I want to be left alone. But I’ve never seen anyone else here before.” He looks at Arya with thinly veiled interest. “Tell me, how did you find this place?” 

“I don’t know,” she admits, idly fingering the hem of her short gown. “I was chasing a mean old cat, but after that, I don’t really remember.”

The prince surveys her dirty clothes and the various cuts and scratches on her arms and knees and purses his lips in disapproval. “Is your mother one of the kitchen maids? You ought to hurry along now, little girl, and leave this place. And you must promise me never to come back here again or tell anyone of what you saw here.” 

Arya scowls and defiantly crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to leave yet,” she sulks. “I want to see more of the dragon skulls.” 

The prince’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “But… aren’t you scared of them?” he asks her in a puzzled tone. 

“No. I’m a brave girl,” she tells him. “And Syrio says fear cuts deeper than swords, so I must never be afraid.” 

“Who is Syrio?” 

“He’s my water dancer instructor, of course.”

Aegon Targaryen cocks his head to the side. “Water dancing? What is that? I have never heard of that kind of dance before,” he muses, looking bothered by his lack of knowledge. “Will you teach me?” 

Arya bites her lip, looking hesitant. “I could… Although I’m not very good at it yet…” her voice trails off, then a mischievous smile breaks over her face. “Oh, I know! I will teach you if you tell me more about the dragon skulls!” 

“You like dragons, then? Very well. I suppose it’s only fitting that I tell you. After all, I _am_ the blood of the dragon.” The boy straightens his shoulders and gives her a proud smile, as though Arya ought to be pleased with him. 

But instead she frowns. “No, you’re not.” 

The prince recoils at the insult. “What do you mean, I’m not? I just said so, didn’t I?” 

“You can’t _be_ a dragon, stupid,” Arya objects, stomping her tiny little feet. “You’re just a boy.” 

“How dare you!” Aegon Targaryen cries out, his delicate pretty features twisted in outrage. “How dare you speak to your future king like that, you impertinent, filthy, little girl! I shall have you whipped at once for your insolence!” 

Arya sniffs and raises her chin, the way she has seen her mother do when she wants to put other ladies in their proper place. “My father says a prince must always be just and gracious and kind to his subjects,” she says in her best imitation of Sansa’s snobbish voice. “ _You_ are no prince.” 

Her companion looks at her as though he has been whipped; his eyes wide open and his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Then after a moment, as though remembering himself, he regains his composure and stares at the little girl in front of her with narrowed eyes. “Who exactly is your father?” he demands to know. 

“I’m not telling you my father’s name. You’ll only get me in trouble with him.” 

Aegon raises an eyebrow, amazed at her brazenness.  “True,” he says imperiously. “The proper thing for me to do, of course, is to inform your father that he has a horrible imp for a child, so that you may be appropriately scolded for speaking out of turn, but to show you that I am a just, generous, and kind prince, I shall not have you punished. So go on, girl. Tell me who your father is. Your prince is curious.” 

The little girl eyes him suspiciously. “Do you really?” she insists. “Do you promise not to get me in trouble?” 

He nods. “A prince does not lie,” he tells her. 

There is a pause. Then in a tiny voice, she finally confesses, “My father’s name is Eddard Stark.” 

An incredulous look crosses over the prince’s face. “Stark…” he whispers, the full weight of the name heavy on his lips. “Your father is the Lord of Winterfell? Then that makes you…” All of a sudden the prince starts to laugh. He leans back and almost topples out of the dragon skull’s jaws, his long thin legs sprawled out on the floor and his head thrown back, revealing the white flesh of his throat. 

He shakes his head and smiles at her before saying, “You had me believe you were one of the castle maid’s children, when in fact you are the daughter of the Warden of the North?” He takes one long look at her and then laughs again. 

Arya glares at him, her lips drawn into a pout. “You’re being a rude prince again,” she points out angrily, prepared to hit him the way Robb taught her – knuckles first and thumbs outside her fist – if he dares to laugh at her one more time. 

Seeing the look on her face, the boy clears his throat. “Oh, forgive me,” he says. “It’s only that I have never seen a little lady behave the way you do. You are rather… peculiar. And amusing. Yes, so very amusing. Are all women from the North like you?” 

The girl blinks her large, doe-like eyes at him. “No, I don’t think so. Septa Mordane calls me a beastly child and sometimes Mother says that I am not a child at all, but half a wolf,” she tells him innocently. “My sister Sansa says it’s meant as an insult, but that’s alright. I like being called a wolf. Wolves are strong and fierce.” 

The prince fixes his gaze on her, those deep indigo eyes of his smoldering like coals left too long in the fire, and there is something about the way he is looking at her –as though she is a strange and fascinating puzzle he cannot solve – that makes her want to look away. “Yes, I can see that you are a wolf,” he whispers. “And I’m a dragon. Do you think wolves and dragons can get along?” 

Arya wrinkles her nose. “Why do you keep calling yourself a dragon? Maester Luwin says there are no dragons left in the world,” she says. 

“That’s not true,” Aegon argues, his thin boyish face turned down into a frown. “My father says that someday I shall wake dragons from stone and I would ride one so large it will make Balerion the Black Dread retreat in shame.” 

“That sounds stupid. Things like that only happen in stories.” 

“Ah, why must you doubt me so?” the prince says, shaking his head, but instead of getting mad again, this time he just gives her a smug smile. “When you see me atop my dragon, you shall rue the day you made fun of me.” 

Arya sticks her tongue out at him. “You’ll probably be a bad dragon rider,” she tells him without any ounce of remorse. “I bet _I_ can ride a dragon better than you.” 

The prince looks down his nose at her. “Not a chance,” he quips. “What do _you_ know about dragons? You’re just a little she-wolf. But I’m a Targaryen and a prince and the blood of the dragon, so naturally, I shall be the better rider.” 

“No, you won’t. _I’ll_ beat you.” 

“Will not!” 

“Will too!” 

The boy groans in disbelief. “Your septa is right. You really are a beastly child,” he remarks. 

“And you’re a strange boy,” Arya says rather bluntly. “Why do you get mad so easily?” 

“Because,” the prince answers her with a sigh, trying his best to be patient with her. “No one has ever called me ‘stupid’ before. When you said that to me, it made me feel upset.” 

The girl approaches him with a tentative expression on her face and seats herself beside him, the grubby edge of her dress brushing against his immaculate, gold-threaded tunic. But surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings,” she grudgingly whispers, her tiny hands reaching for his own. 

“Huh,” he comments, utterly bewildered at the girl’s sudden change of attitude. “So you are capable of being nice after all.” 

Arya shrugs. “Father says I must always be mindful of other people’s feelings. He says sometimes I talk too much and make other people cry, like that one time I told Jeyne Poole she looked like a fat cow in a dress, so Father made me apologize even though I was just being honest. He says sometimes people don’t like it when they hear hurtful things about them, even though it is the truth.” 

“Your father sounds like a wise man,” the young boy says approvingly, looking impressed by her words. “And I suppose you were right, in a way. I was being unkind. I apologize for calling you a filthy little girl.” 

“That’s alright. I forgive you.” 

The prince gives her a warm smile. “When I get my dragons, I shall let you ride them, to show you how kind I am,” he tells her, his eyes shining with excitement. “How would you like that?” 

The girl’s eyes grow wide. “Will you really? Can I get a dragon of my own? I want to be a fierce dragon rider and go on grand adventures, just like Queen Visenya!” Then, remembering that she isn’t supposed to believe in dragons anymore, she adds hastily, “Not that I believe you… But… You know… _If_ you do manage to find your dragons, will you allow me to have one? Oh, will you? I promise to be good. I shall take good care of it and… and –” 

Aegon laughs at her exuberance. “Slow down, little girl,” he says, although his own face looks as enthusiastic as hers. “You are greedy. I only offer you a ride but you insist on having a dragon all to yourself. How bold of you. Still, I’m afraid it can’t be done. Father says only a Targaryen may own a dragon.” 

“But… but… Queen Visenya…” 

The prince shies away, unable to bear the look of disappointment on the girl’s face. “Queen Visenya is a Targaryen. _And_ she is Aegon the Conqueror’s sister wife,” he begins to tell her. Then, an idea suddenly takes root in his head – an idea so impossible it nearly takes him by surprise – and an odd look comes over his face. “But perhaps there is a way… If you really want a dragon of your own…” 

The girl clutches his hand tightly and moves closer to him. “Tell me, tell me!” she demands impatiently. 

“If you were to wed a Targaryen king…” Aegon muses, resting one hand on his chin. “Yes, that would work. I am to be king soon, so if you marry _me_ , you can have your own dragon.” 

Arya looks at him in dismay and withdraws her hand from his. “But I don’t want to marry anyone!” she cries out, the defiance back in her voice. “I want to be a king's advisor when I grow up!” 

“You can’t be a king's advisor. You’re a girl,” Aegon points out in amusement. “And besides, what about your dragon?” 

The girl bites her lip and frowns at him. “You don’t even have a dragon yet,” she retaliates, crossing her arms over her chest and eyeing him distrustfully. “Maybe you’re just japing with me.” 

Aegon sighs. “No, I’m not. A prince doesn’t lie, remember?” he reminds her. “My father told me all about it. He said he saw it in a dream, that there’s a prophecy about me, and that I’m the Promised One, the one that shall wake dragons from stone and bring peace and magic back to the Seven Kingdoms. There will be dragons once again, mark my words.” 

“Well…” Arya says hesitantly. “I suppose if the king said it, it must be true…” 

“Yes, of course it is.” Aegon nods, pleased that he has finally convinced the little girl of his claim. “So, how about it? Would you like to be my Visenya, little Arya Stark?”

The girl scrunches up her face, eyebrows drawn together, and gnaws on her lip as she tries hard to think. “Oh, but I can’t. If I marry you, you’ll force me to become a proper lady!” she exclaims, shuddering as if the very thought of it frightens her so. “You’ll stuff me in stupid dresses and make me attend tea parties and forbid me from practicing my water dancing!” 

“What if I promise not to force you to do anything that you don’t want to do?” Aegon negotiates. “You can be a warrior _and_ a queen, just like Queen Visenya. I’ve always wanted to have a queen like her.” 

Arya hums under her breath as her six-year-old mind ponders the question. “Well…” she pauses to say. “I suppose if you really promise…” 

“Do you accept then?” 

“Alright,” the little girl finally announces, solemnly tilting her chin in agreement. “But don’t forget my dragon or I shan’t marry you.” 

Aegon Targaryen gives her a boyish grin in response. “But of course!” he declares. “Now, my lady, allow me to seal the deal with a kiss.” And without further ado, the prince gallantly swoops down and plants a gentle kiss on the back of her hand. 

He sees the startled and blatant disgust on Arya’s face and laughs. It looks like the start of a beautiful and fascinating relationship.

 

 

 

 

* * *

  

“Arya, there you are!” 

Catelyn Stark rushes forward to greet her daughter, her skirts swirling, strands of her fiery hair threatening to escape from its elaborate braid. She looks pale and harried, which is not an unusual sight when one is dealing with a particularly difficult child named Arya Stark. Behind her trails her husband, the honorable Ned Stark, and their elder daughter Sansa, whose face is contorted into a mask of disapproval as she stares at her younger sister’s untidy appearance. 

“Oh, dear child, where have you been? We’ve been searching half the castle for you!” her mother exclaims when she reaches Arya’s side. With frantic strokes, she smooths back her daughter’s unkempt hair from her face and wipes the dust and grime on her forehead with a kerchief. “Goodness, look at the state you’re in!” 

“Your mother and I have been very worried about you,” Ned Stark adds in, gazing sternly at his daughter. 

Arya wriggles out of her mother’s grasp and rushes forward to embrace her father. “I’m so sorry, Father,” she cries out, her skinny arms barely reaching Ned Stark’s waist. “I got lost and found myself in the dungeons, and there were dragon skulls all around me. Oh, you should’ve seen them, Father! They were so huge and white and at first I was scared, but then I met a boy –” 

“What boy?” her mother interrupts sharply. 

“His name is Prince Aegon,” Arya tells them happily. “He says he’s going to marry me and give me a real dragon, like the one in the songs! I’ll be his fierce warrior queen and we’ll fight off horrible monsters –snarks and giants and grumkins  –” 

“Mother, she’s lying!” her elder sister suddenly shrieks, looking horrified. “We’ve been here for days now and even I haven’t seen Prince Aegon yet. It’s probably just a butcher boy claiming to be the prince. Must we suffer through all her lies, Mother?” 

The younger Stark girl moves forward, as though she means to yank her sister’s hair, but her father holds her firmly in place. “I am not lying! It’s true!” she screeches. “It really is Prince Aegon! You believe me, Father, don’t you?” 

“Yes, of course, sweetling,” Ned Stark murmurs absently, sharing a resigned look with his wife. 

“Now, come along, young lady,” her mother says severely as she steers her daughter away from the tiny alcove from which they found her. “Let’s get you cleaned up in time for supper. And no more talks of princes and dragons or I’ll give you more needlework lessons with your septa on the morrow.” 

“But mother –”

“Hush now.” 

Arya steals one last glance at the entrance to the dark cellar, as though expecting to see the prince again, and frowns. Let Sansa laugh at her if she wants to. It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow she would go and see Prince Aegon again, for he has promised to show her more secret passageways around the castle and watch her practice her water dance. No doubt her mother would disapprove, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her. 

  

 

**Author's Note:**

> You know what? I like Arya/Aegon so much I even ship them when they're kids. Haha. Oh dear lord, look what this fandom has done to me XD
> 
> Will these crazy kids follow through with their marriage pact in the future? Well, I leave it to your imagination ;)


End file.
